An uneventful day II
by ImaginaryNumber
Summary: The same day as "An uneventful day" but from Reese's POV.


**Disclaimer:** The characters aren't mind and I'm not making any money off of them.

**Spoilers:** Set early in season 1.

The following lines from the series are referenced:

- S1E1 REESE: _I think their next target is Hansen. But I don't know for certain. Hell, I don't know anything for certain, because you won't tell me where you're gettin' your information._

- S1E1 REESE: _What is this place?_

FINCH: _The decline of Western civilization. The city closed half its libraries. Budget cuts._

- S1E20: REESE: Our's is not to reason why. Isn't that what you taught me?

KARA: There I thought you weren't listening.

The following poems are referenced: The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe; The charge of the light brigade - Alfred, Lord Tennyson; The road not taken - Robert Frost.

**Author's note:** This story goes with my last one, "An uneventful day". It is the same day from Reese's POV. For poi922; you asked for it, though it might not be exactly what you had in mind.

* * *

The sounds of fluttering and nail-scratching at the windowsill tears Reese away from Jessica's face and into consciousness. He has not gotten used to the sounds of the small apartment he's currently living in yet. His hyper-aware mind will wake him as soon as an unfamiliar sound is registered, until it learns to recognize the normal sounds as non-dangerous.

Before his eyes are completely open, his brain has already figured out the origin of the sound and ceases its alarm, yet he quickly scans the room for danger. While willing his body out of alarm mode, he walks toward the window, causing the pigeons to willingly give up the windowsill. Unlike the raven in Poe's poem, he thinks. He opens the window and nearly expects one of the pigeons to come perch on his doorframe. _Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."_" Looking out into the rain, sorrow and a kind of amusement fight over control of his face. His amusement stemming from the fact that spending so much time in that library is starting to affect him. He could be alarmed about this, but doesn't take it that seriously. It's only dangerous if you don't now you are being influenced. Besides, literature is something that belongs to the world he isn't a part of anymore. How ironic that a library is one of the most important places in his life right now. A library that, like him, has no place in the world anymore. _"The decline of western civilization."_

He walks toward the sink and inspects the nearly-healed cut on his shoulder in the mirror, then goes about his morning routine automatically and efficiently. The short stint at the open window gave him an idea of the weather outside and he picks his undershirt accordingly, but without giving it too much thought. Other than that, it's just his regular suit, and of course his handgun, carefully tucked away at the small of his back. He acknowledges the rain by grabbing his overcoat on the way out the door.

Reese takes the subway, then walks a couple of blocks to a bakery he's been meaning to try out. Back on the subway, he marvels at how distant the memory of the altercation he had with the young men here, just a couple months ago, seems now. A few stops later, and after some more walking and some back-tracking, he arrives at the library with the box of doughnuts. His employer greets him as soon as he comes into sight. One of these days, Reese has to locate all the cameras hidden around the place. Being able to sneak up on his employer might come in handy some day.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. How did John Warren's dinner meeting with the new executive go?"

"You already know how it went, Finch." Reese says putting the box of donuts on the desk and sitting in the only other chair. He isn't sure whether Finch takes a doughnut to be polite or because he likes them.

"Yes, I suppose I do, but what is your impression of the man." Reese studies his employer's face for a few seconds to try and judge the purpose of the question. He goes with an honest assessment.

"He's an over-dressed, over-paid, misogynist jerk, and so full of himself, I was expecting him to burst any second. Did I mention he's a bully, too?"

"You seemed pleasant enough around him."

"You TOLD me to be pleasant around him. Remember? Make a good impression in front of my co-workers." Reese had a very hard time being pleasant around that executive whom he had much rather shot in the kneecap.

"Well, do you think he'll make a good addition to the company?"

Reese glares at Finch. Could someone so smart really be so thick?

"I take that as a 'no'." Reese just keeps glaring. "He'll be fired before the end of the week."

"Just like that?" Reese asks, surprised.

"Yes, just like that." Finch states. Finch is normally so independent in his decision making, yet in this matter he defers to Reese so readily. Reese tucks that information away for possible later use.

"Maybe I should chat with prospective employees BEFORE you hire them." Reese teases.

"That would be most helpful, Mr. Reese!" Finch says cheerily. "However, I'm afraid the companies I control hire a lot of new employees every month, and you have more important work to do."

"A new number?"

"No, not at this time. I suggest you spend the down time at your _other_ office, performing some more upkeep on your cover identity."

"Are you certain there's no new number?" After last night, Reese has had just about enough of the cover job maintenance thing for the time beeing.

"Quite certain, yes."

Reese makes a face mainly just to give his employer a hard time, and to see what his reaction might be. No reaction, though, so he puts on his game face and leaves.

There was something _off_ about this interaction with Finch; he has the feeling Finch wanted him out of there. What for? Reese walks around the block once and comes to a stop partially hidden behind a street lamp. He observes the library for a good hour. There is no activity. Whatever Finch has planned this morning, it is taking place in the library; or more precisely, Reese supposes, in cyberspace.

Bored and drenched to the bone, he gives up his watch and takes the subway to one of their safe-houses. He memorized the address but he has never been there. Since he needs a change of clothes, he figures he can check it out, get to know the area and the layout.

The safe-house, or rather safe-apartment, is not as opulent as he expected it to be, but it has everything you could want in a safe-house: a private entrance from a quiet street, two bedrooms with comfy looking beds, bathroom well stocked with first aid supplies, kitchen with food in the fridge and in the pantry. He could live at one of the safe-houses; hell, he could afford a decent apartment now, but he is not ready to give up his self-punishing lifestyle.

He finds clothes that fit him perfectly, including a fairly nice suit and a raincoat, and takes an apple from the kitchen, eating as he walks the neighbourhood and finally back to the subway. It's not quite enough for lunch, so he buys a doner kebab from a store by the subway station and eats it on his way to John Warren's office.

He's not quite sure what he's supposed to do there, other than make sure everyone knows him. Finch has it set up so he doesn't actually have to do any of the work. Fortunately, he's good at looking like he belongs and like he knows what he's doing, so he greets the front desk secretary cordially, makes sure all the present employees see his face, then sits in his office surfing the web.

Despite the blatant disregard for his employer's privacy that his spying demonstrated, he feels obligated to follow the man's orders and show up at his cover job. But that is not the only reason he is at John Warren's office now. It is, first of all, something that he knows needs to be done, and if nothing else, he can be counted on to do what needs to be done. It is also in a way comforting to perform this necessary duty, something harmless and familiar he did many times in his old life. Pretend for a while to be a normal person, with a normal life. Up to and including playing Angry Birds on the job.

The game soon bores him. Some time is taken up memorizing baseball scores and catching up on the world news. Then he's at a loss. He could go back to spying on his employer. At the very least, he should check in and see if there's finally a new number. He calls the familiar number.

"Hi Finch. Do we have a new number yet?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Reese."

"I thought the numbers never stopped coming."

"You should be happy that no one is in danger right now. Maybe the bad guys are all taking a day off. So should you. Take the rest of the day off."

"Are you sure the machine isn't broken?"

A sigh on the other end of the line. Finch seems quite sure of his computer skills, and has a lot of faith in the machine. The question obviously exasperates him. Before Finch can answer, Reese continues:

"Alright, I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Bright and early."

The tone of these last couple of words brings the faintest of smiles to his face. His employer is looking forward to a new number just as much as him, but trying not to show it.

The numbers are a two sided coin. One the one hand, they bring up memories from past missions that Reese would rather leave undisturbed. On the other hand, each innocent life he saves redeems him just a little bit and creates pathways in his brain that associate his deadly skills with something good and noble, so that soon, maybe, it won't always be the bad memories that come up.

But for now, there is no number, and he fulfilled his employers only work request sufficiently well. What now? He feels like a border collie left in an apartment all day. He cannot just relax, he needs something to do. Preferably something more productive than chewing shoes and herding throw pillows.

Kara always kept them, kept him, busy. To what ultimate end, neither of them knew. There was always a clear objective, a short-term goal to take a step towards. Though he soon suspected that "helping people" was not where that path was leading.

_Theirs not to make reply,/Theirs not to reason why,/Theirs but to do and die. _

That was her's too. How accurately the poem described their situation, he doesn't know. Even then, he didn't know anything. _Boldly they rode and well,/ Into the jaws of Death,/ Into the mouth of hell _ again and again, having to trust that each mission was worth the cost.

But it's not his life anymore. Not exactly. The end of the path he's taking is clear now. Clearer. He's helping people, taking down the bullies and the bad guys. At least he's doing the best he can, with the information he has. There is no certainty, of course; there never is in his line of work. But he chose to go on this decidedly more well-lit path, and he gets to decide each step to take now. More Frost and less Tennyson. _I shall be telling this with a sigh \ Somewhere ages and ages hence: \ Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, \ I took the one less traveled by, \ And that has made all the difference. _

And that is also why he goes along with Finch's requests. It is not just gratitude for saving his life and giving him this chance, but knowing that each suggested action is a step towards that common goal.

He has been looking out the window and suddenly notices that it has stopped raining. He flees the office as inconspicuously as he can and heads back to his apartment. There, he changes into a light sweater and track pants, and is off to the park. The air is fresh and clear after the rain, and he starts running laps until all that's on his mind is the rhythmic sound of his shoes startling the dead leaves on the ground. An hour and a half later, he is drenched to the bone again.

By the time he arrives back at his current place of residence, his body has cooled down and he is ready for a hot shower. Afterwards, he stands in the open bathroom door looking over his small apartment while towelling his hair. It holds nothing of his. There are the suits, which he started wearing mostly to get a reaction from Finch, but now actually feels quite comfortable in. Some cans of food, the most general nod towards his humanity. And the small stash of weapons of course, hidden away in a drawer. They weren't really his, either. Just what the thugs he took them from happened to have around.

He is alone with nothing but his memories, and a poetry book he took from the library. He found it while idly browsing the bookshelves the other night, and it contained the poem that Kara had quoted. He's not sure why he took it, this reminder of both his missions with Kara and his missions with Finch.

He opens a can of ravioli into an old saucepan that was already there when he moved in. The stove is temperamental and needs some convincing to provide heat. He eats absentmindedly while looking out the window at the setting sun. The scene brings up a memory of a similar room he once sat in in Morocco, eating soup and looking out at the same sun lighting the sky up in similarly eery colours. He pushes the memory out of his mind before it reaches the unpleasant part, but not before looking at the door, half expecting Kara to come through it.

Reese sets the pot in the sink and spots the mostly empty bag of bread. He pulls out the last slice, takes it to the window and carefully places it on the outside window sill. A pigeon eyes him wearily from the roof of the opposite building. He knows he probably shouldn't encourage the pigeons, but such small and private acts of kindness nurture his soul, keep it from withering.

He hasn't nurtured anything, least of all his soul, for a long time. It takes some practice to take up the habit again.

He turns on the TV, but it is only a pretence. He ignores the TV and sits on the bed, leafing through the book of poetry. He notices only now how tired he is. He has long since gotten used to being tired and soon after gotten used to ignoring it. Working on the last case didn't afford him much sleep, and tomorrow will bring another number.


End file.
